


From Chaos We Arise

by notmyrevolution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Enjolras/Grantaire, Mercenaries, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:43:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One last contract, and then he’s done. It should be quick and easy to get rid of one young activist causing havoc, especially with Bahorel covering his back.</p>
<p>Except everything, naturally, goes wrong and all of it is Grantaire’s fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Chaos We Arise

If given the choice, he’ll call Bahorel.

It's not often he has to, or even wants to, work with someone. It's too much of a headache deciding who's the leader, how to split the costs, and whether or not he can trust the person holding a gun to cover his back. He's paid for the mistakes he made during his learning curve, but Grantaire hasn't been on a learning curve in years.

He can trust Bahorel.

Grantaire stares at the folder in front of him. It's packed full of information, everything he'll need to know about discreetly taking care of the problem his contractor has, and it's the same every time. Years of doing this turns planning a job into muscle memory.

_Except this is it_ , Grantaire thinks, tapping his fingers against the neck of a whiskey bottle.  _I’m done._

So he calls Bahorel.

“R, it's three in the morning, the fuck d’you want?” A rough voice says, picking up after the fifth ring. There's a crackle, indicating an international call, and Grantaire raises an eyebrow that Bahorel can't see.

“Where the fuck are you?” He asks, looking at the clock. It’s barely 6 PM.

“Vladivostok,” Bahorel says, and there's a rustle of sheets, the sound of someone moving.

“Vladivostok?” Grantaire parrots, laughing. “The fuck are you doing in Vladivostok? Drinking vodka and fighting Russians?”

“Babysitting,” Bahorel says simply, and Grantaire remembers the job offer he was talking about last time they met.  _Security detail for some ambassador's kid_ , Bahorel had said, before Grantaire made him forget about work. Grantaire's glad he gets to be picky about his contracts, because  _fuck kids_.

“Hey, asshole,” Bahorel says, drawing Grantaire's attention back. “Is there a _reason_ you called or did you actually miss me?”

“You wish. The sex is good but it isn't good enough to make me waste my money on an international call,” Grantaire says with a laugh, and leans back on the couch. He switches ears, holds the phone with his shoulder so he can open the bottle clutched in his hand. “Fancy helping me with something?”

There's a pause, and when Bahorel speaks again, he can hear the sudden alertness in his voice, “Are we talking a 'help you move house on Wednesday' something?”

“Nope,” Grantaire says, and takes a mouthful straight from the bottom. It burns going down and dries out his mouth. “I'm talking a 'get paid to kill people' something.”

“You want me to jump from one job straight into another?” Bahorel asks, unimpressed. “I can be in Paris by Friday but it better be fucking worth it and you better buy me a fucking drink for my trouble.‘”

Grantaire presses the palm of his hand against his eyes, and tries to recall the facts.

“Twenty-three year old activist. French, so  _home sweet home_. Young enough to be remembered, smart enough to make a difference. Government wants him gone,” Grantaire says, and he's long beyond hesitating over those words. “Figured I could use a second, you know how these  _revolutionary_ types are.”

The line is quiet, save for the static crackle. He knows Bahorel hasn't hung up. He knows how Bahorel works, knows he's thinking it over, weighing the pros and cons.

“What's the kid's name?” Bahorel asks, and it's as good as a yes.

Grantaire picks up the file, flipping the pages back over until he gets to the front. The name is printed there in bold lettering, and Grantaire repeats it aloud, “Enjolras.”

“Friday,” Bahorel says simply, and the line clicks. There's no need to go through it all now, negotiating is always easier done in person and Grantaire is too close to drunk to think clearly. He knows that killing off one smart-mouthed child shouldn't be too hard, especially with Bahorel at his back.

_A quick and easy contract,_  he thinks,  _and then I'm done_.

 


End file.
